


Mum's Lodgers

by mintwitch



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 17:04:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintwitch/pseuds/mintwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A "thank you" gift for Mazarin221b on the occasion of her completing Through The Clouds. An out-take featuring Meredith.</p><p>I don't normally play in other people's sandbox, but her story gave me <i>ideas</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mum's Lodgers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mazarin221b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Through the Clouds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/719697) by [Mazarin221b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b). 



"Ah, Meredith, it's good you are here."

"Why Sherlock, do come in," she said, dryly. If Sherlock had ever knocked before entering her mother's kitchen, Meredith hadn't witnessed it.

"Tea, Sherlock?" Mum asked, unperturbed.

"Yes, please, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock replied. Seating himself at the small table, he commandeered a scone, as Mum served up another cuppa.

"What's the occasion, dear?"

Sherlock looked as awkward as Meredith had ever seen him. He seemed to be chewing slowly even for Sherlock, who sometimes ate as if every grind of his molars was a special brand of torture. Of course, sometimes he fell upon food like a rabid badger, so one could never tell.

"I apologize, and I hope that this news will not cause a, ah..." Sherlock Holmes, blithering. It was like Christmas. Meredith was enthralled. "A rift between us. You must know that John and I hold you in the highest regard, and we have been very happy..."

"Oh, thank God!" Meredith burst out. She clapped her hands over her mouth, laughing and sputtering. "Sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry. Sorry!"

Sherlock was glaring at her, bridling like a cat. He sniffed, completing the impression, before turning those eerie eyes back towards her mother. "As your daughter has deduced, John and I have decided to retire and move to Sussex. I will, of course, reimburse you for whatever rent you feel is fair and appropriate, considering the short notice, but we would like to move into the Lodge in six weeks."

Mum smiled coyly at her teacup, then sipped. She looked up at Sherlock, affectionate and amused. "Don't you worry, dear. I think that will be just fine. We're already mid-way through this month, so." She waved a hand, dismissing the whole matter. "So, tell me about this Lodge of yours."

Sherlock was delighted to go on about his and John's retirement cottage by the sea, in great and extensive detail. Meredith excused herself to return to her own flat without Sherlock even pausing in his description of the bay window in what would apparently be John's room. John's room, right. She wondered how long that would last. Those two. Clueless, the both of them.

 

*

 

Tom was already home, by the time she got back to the flat. "You will never guess what just happened!" she said, practically skipping into the sitting room. She threw herself down on the sofa, and swung her feet up into his lap.

"Probably, so why don't you just tell me?" Tom set his book down on the end table and began to untie her shoes. Such a sweet man; how had she gotten so lucky?

"Sherlock and Dr Watson are retiring to Sussex! They're actually leaving 221B!" She clapped her hands, giddy with glee.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously!"

"That means..." Tom's eyes got a bit dreamy, as they met Meredith's. She nodded.

"Yes," she said. "I can't wait to tell Annie and Bridget. This is perfect."

Tom finished removing her shoes, and thoughtfully stroked the top of her feet. "How soon?"

"Six weeks. Maybe sooner, but no more than that."

"Good enough. I'll take some time off, and several of the chaps will pitch in. We can have the whole place done in a month, then the girls can move in."

"...and quit making excuses!"  

He pinched a toe. "You are going to be the grandmother from Hell."

"I just want Mum to see her great-grandchild. Is that too much to ask?" Meredith batted her eyes at her husband.

"When Annie and Bridge are ready, they'll do it. Whether they are in 221B or on the other side of the city. Or another country, for that matter. They are both younger than you were, when you had Annie."

Meredith stuck out her tongue at him. "Quit being reasonable. Besides, Annie never got to meet Nana. I want better for Annie, and their babes."

"I'll make tea," Tom said, and moved her feet off of his lap. As he rose, he carried her shoes out with him. She could hear him make the slight detour necessary to set them down in the entry, on his way to the kitchen. Such a sweet man--he was going to be a wonderful Grandda.

 

*

 

"Are you sure there is nothing you want to keep?" Sherlock asked, even as his eyes roamed possessively over the tired old sofa and scarred tables.

"I am so bloody certain, that if you don't take it, I'm going to pitch it all out the window and set it on fire," Meredith explained, with exaggerated patience.

Sherlock's mouth quirked, in one of his odd half-smiles. Those always seemed far more sincere than the wide grin he flashed on occasion. "Well, John would insist on my asking."

Meredith nodded. "And now you can honestly tell him that you did, and that I give you my blessing to take everything. Please. Take it all."

"Thank you," he responded, gravely. He looked wistful, as much as Sherlock Holmes ever did. It was a subtle expression, but more poignant for its elusiveness. "We've been happy here."

She looked around, trying to see it with his eyes. The cow skull that had been on the wall for decades. The faded, mismatched wallpaper. The portrait of the Queen that she knew hid bullet holes and graffiti. Meredith had different memories of these things. Not any less fond--she loved Sherlock and Dr Watson as much as her mum did--but this space wasn't home, to her. It was the upstairs flat, and in her mind, Meredith was already stripping off the wallpaper and tearing up the lino.

"You'll be happy in Sussex," she said, quietly, respectful of his history with the place. "Maybe even happier," and she couldn't help it if her voice sounded a bit sly, a bit suggestive.

Sherlock flashed her a startled glance, then looked away. She would swear that he was blushing, but the late afternoon sun was too dim for proof. That was another thing that would change. The renovated 221B would be bright enough for babies to play, for colors to glow, vivid and true. It would be a space for learning to walk, for noisy games, and eventually homework and school projects. It would ring with pop music, not lovelorn violin concertos.

"You'll be happy in Sussex," she said, again, firmer this time. "And you will invite us up as soon as you are settled in. I'm sure Mum is already planning your housewarming gift."

"An avocado-green afghan in some sort of dreadful, puffy stitch. Horrid, really, I may have to spill something corrosive on it. A terrible shame, so sorry."

Meredith laughed aloud. Mum's afghans truly were horrid. Meredith and Tom had a whole closet of them, in an brain-bending array of duelling colors, dropped stitches, and scratchy yarns. They kept them because they loved her mum, but also because it seemed cruel to the needy to donate them to charity. Instead, they bought blankets for charitable drives, and suffered. But now she knew why Sherlock and his doctor never seemed to have one of Mum's little projects draped over a chair. Sherlock killed them. Either Dr Watson didn't know or he was in on it. It could go either way, with that one. He was short, but deep.

"Would Dr Watson approve?" Meredith asked, half teasing, half serious.

Sherlock's mouth quirked, again, and he shot her a sly glance. "The good doctor is ethically flexible on the subject of afghans." Which didn't really answer her question. Or then, again, maybe it did.

He frowned suddenly. "If I may ask?"

Meredith shrugged, cocking her head. It wasn't like Sherlock to ask if he could ask. Hell, it wasn't like Sherlock to ask, full stop.

"You call me Sherlock, but you never refer to John as anything but Dr Watson." It was more a statement than a question, really, but nonetheless a statement that begged explanation.

"Well, he is. A doctor, I mean. It's respectful." She thought. "And, well." John had saved Annie's life, then found Annie's Bridget. He had mended their hearts, stitched them back into a family. Sherlock was dramatic and amazing, an erratic genius and a right prat, sometimes. When Sherlock had been gone, the doctor had been there, in their lives, quietly wrecked, but still terrifyingly strong. He'd taken care of Mum, and Meredith and Tom and Annie had tried to care for him.

"It's just respectful," she repeated, unable to explain.

"Of course," Sherlock replied, as if no other explication were required. Perhaps he did understand. Who knew?

Changing the subject, Meredith asked, "So, what are you two going to do, out there? Miss Marple your way through the countryside?"

"Perhaps." He apparently got the reference, but he didn't belabor it. "Write. I would like to study bees. I suspect John will take up something practical, like gardening, in between making tea and part-time GP work. He already wants to renovate the kitchen."

"Very domestic, you two."

Sherlock sniffed.

"It sounds lovely," she said.

"Yes," he replied. "Yes, it does."

 

 

~finis~


End file.
